Not Her Fault
by Kat J
Summary: Dillon/Georgie-ish "It shouldn't have happened, but I didn't stop it. I played along..."


I disclaim. 

This is just something I wrote after watching today. It's from Dillon's perspective. Beware of the angst! 

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It shouldn't have happened, but I didn't stop it. I played along and let her kiss me.  
  


And now, how long has it been since our lips touched the first time? Has it really been months? In my mind it's still so fresh and yet far away, as if I had been outside my own body watching down as Georgie Jones, a girl I didn't even know, pressed her lips to mine and demanded that I kiss her back.   
  


She didn't give me a chance to stop it. Didn't give me a chance to not breath in that soft baby-powder fresh scent if hers. She let me into their twisted triangle and made me an unwilling participant sealing some mixed up box where the four of us rotate and I'm the odd man out.   
  


I stood beside her confirming her story with unblinking lies.   
  


It is because of that kiss that I'm here now, watching as she sorts through racks and racks of purple and pink frilly, strapless and spaghetti stringed dresses. I watch her because I'm positive she's blissfully unaware of my eyes.   
  


The first time was a fluke. I was there at the right time and did her a favour. The second time, I was a willing participant. Torturing myself with the thought that maybe her curiosity was piqued. That she felt some of what consumed me the first time we kissed.   
  


She wanted to practice her sweet kisses on me and save the passion for Lucas and I let her. I stood there and kissed her and let her use me. Though I criticize it now, I know I wouldn't have played it any different. Even though I know the outcome, I still would have puckered up and pretended that it didn't mean as much as it did.   
  


I remember the smell of the air, the heat of her hand on my cheek, the softness of her cherry lip balm as it slid over my lips and over my tongue.  
  


The look on her face wasn't disgust or love, just indifference. I'm no Lucas and that's all she thinks about right now.   
  


Don't be mistaken, I don't dilute myself with the thought that her touches, heartbreaking smile, phone calls for advice or doe eyes looking at me, are for me, because they're not. The phone calls are to talk about Lucas. The touches and smiles and huge dream-crest eyes, are all in hope that Lucas might walk by and may have the slightest twinge of jealousy. She doesn't mean to hurt me, I know that.   
  


It's not her fault she doesn't know how I feel. It's not her fault that I won't tell her. That I'll continue to be her friend and scoff at her childish crush on a guy who is not worthy. If Lucas only knew what Georgie Jones was all about. If he had one iota of sense, he'd see how amazing, how strikingly beautiful, how intensely smart she was, but Lucas' line of vision is just as blurred.  
  


It's some twisted game of rose-coloured glasses and fanciful stares directed the wrong way. I don't want to play and yet I'm right there throwing the dice and waiting my turn again and again.   
  


Being a critic of all things classic, I've fancied myself knowledgeable when it comes to romance. But Georgie does not want to be romanced by me. The hooks from Hollywood when all a guy had to do was glance at the foxy blonde or stunning brunette and give her that heart-stopping wink, don't work in this modern society.   
  


I know who I am and what I stand for. I like to watch video's late at night with the lights down low and drown in the black and white screen, with simple characters and their compact stories and nice resolution when their one-hundred and twenty minutes are over. I freely admit to ploys of escapism. Film is my outlet, my secret hiding place where I'm free to explore feelings and emotions that I can never express. I don't mind being a film geek. I don't mind admitting that my best friends are Hitchcock, Ford and Capra.   
  


I'm the guy out of the way, the one in the shadows no one seems to notice. Maybe I'm in the back of the room, maybe in the corner wearing headphones attached to my laptop. Just so I can hear the exact moment when Nicky Ferrante realizes just who that woman was in the gallery and where his painting has ended up and his breath hitches when he finally understands why he stood alone at the top of the Empire State building. Those are the moments I live for. I imagine maybe one day Georgie might stand stalk-straight and her voice will catch and she'll look at me with the same longing and we'll embrace and forget why we've hurt each other.   
  


I grimace as she sets another dress onto the ever-growing pile across my arms. She'll look beautiful, I know that without having to see her in any of them. And even as I know how stunning she'll be, I know even more importantly that when I see her at prom on the arm of someone else, she'll take my breath away, and not because of how gorgeous she looks, but because I'll feel like I've been sucker punched in the stomach because Lucas hasn't even noticed.   
  


And still I'm brought back to that kiss. That one moment when I had my Hollywood ending before it was shattered with reality and utopian dreams of a boy named Lucas.  
  


I wish it hadn't meant so much. That kiss. That spine-tingling, sashay of lips and tongue. Maybe then I could still look at her like she was a friend. I don't look at her that way, not at all. How can I? How can I keep pretending that she doesn't mean so much to me?  
  


Still, after everything that's happened or hasn't happened, I can't get myself to hate her.  
  


It's not her fault. See, she doesn't even know. She has no clue I'm falling for her.   


End.

  



End file.
